Amends
by coatcollar
Summary: Anderson struggles with guilt after the death of Sherlock Holmes
1. Chapter 1

"Gillian."

"Anderson, please."

"Anderson. Maybe you should write about it."

"Write about what? My feelings about having made an innocent man plunge to his death? I feel awful. Only so much to write."

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"Start at the beginning. From the first time you met him. From before that, even. Write everything."

Anderson rubs his face, grimacing. He knows he looks more than a little wild-eyed as he stares at his therapist's calm face. He does nothing to hide it; this is her job, after all, and since when has anyone made his job any easier for him? No need to pass along a nonexistent favor. "And how could that help?"

"Maybe you're hiding something from yourself. Maybe you need to go back and remember everything. Maybe—" she pauses, considering him carefully "—you'll remember why it isn't your fault."

"It is my fault!"

"It isn't, Gillian—"

"Anderson."

"Anderson. It isn't. It really, really isn't. And I'm asking you to do this. Anderson, I'm trying to help you, but I can only do so much. You need to do what I'm asking."

Deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I'll try. I won't promise anything, but I'll try." _And I mean it_, he thought to himself, _if I'm being honest. _He takes a second deep breath and holds it as the woman across from him launches into a list of grief management resources, barely listening.

* * *

><p>He takes the tube home. The metal pole sways gently in his hand as he stands against it, watching the others without much interest. He has a long journey ahead of him; he knows he can afford to doze, surrounded by students tapping away at cellphones and mothers with small children. A pair of Americans jabber away. <em>I haven't written anything since I was in uni how does she expect me to it's too big I can't well I could but I don't want to remember well I sort of owe Him don't I? <em>Sigh._ I owe Him but writing why writing there's nothing inherent in the act of writing of all things except communication and nobody is ever going to read this ever over my dead body will anyone read it hopefully not literally I would like to stay alive He's not even around to find my potential murderer He would've loved that case Sally would've suspected Him in a heartbeat but I don't think so no it wouldn't be that Watson he must be dying surprised he even responded but it was helpful and_ the tube sways and he taps the pole aimlessly and rubs the indentation where his wedding ring once was and studies the graffiti on the blue plastic seats.

When he's back on the street, blinking in the sudden light, it's Baker Street and he's gotten off six stops too soon.

He catches himself staring in the direction of His flat and shakes himself, hurrying in the opposite direction. _Damn not where I want to be a quick walk to clear my head how did I end up here really would look stupid to go back down into the tube walk away from 221B don't want to run into Watson don't want to be punched would he punch me probably I don't know. _Busy intersection. A pair of double deckers roll by. He looks, waits, crosses, walks. Walks. _I don't even have anything to write in I could use my computer but no I don't think that's as helpful helpful an hour ago I thought writing was pointless helpful how I dunno there's something old what's the word archaic writing by hand has been around for eons probably this is important then if it's been around this long _cracks in the pavement, shop windows and cars, and a blue and white sign that says WH Smith catches his eye.

It's a bookstore, a small one, cheap-looking, nothing like Waterstone's or that holy mecca Blackwell's an hour north. No, this one sells romance novels and greeting cards and can't possibly be at all related to what he's looking for which is what, exactly? He's not sure but he's fairly positive there must be a notebook in the place somewhere, which is what he's actually looking for. He's not sure about the mental aberration there but thinks it might have something to do with the lack of sleep and he pushes the door open and walks into the store. It is, as suspected, full of poorly printed paperbacks and shabby-looking shelves and the clerk at the desk is tired enough for the nod in his direction to be mostly unintentional, but Anderson knows that feeling and doesn't judge the clerk, much. "Notebook?" he asks and is gratified when the sleepy clerk wakes up enough to sling an easy thumb towards the back.

He amuses himself wondering what He would have deduced about the clerk and realizes as he stops that he's synchronized his steps to the fly that's rhythmically throwing itself against the front window, buzzing. It's August—three months after—and it's hot, it's hot in _London_, and the flies are out in force which annoys everyone but Anderson doesn't really mind, not at the moment anyway, he's looking over the notebooks because he might as well anyway. His therapist is somewhat incompetent he thinks and they don't get on and he's convinced this newest therapeutic plan will fail because so far everything else has although perhaps he shouldn't be too hasty but he may as well just buy the damn notebook because if he doesn't she won't even think he's tried at all. WH Smith isn't Waterstone's and the notebooks aren't great and Anderson cares about quality, even when it's just a notebook, it's important. It has to feel right in his hands because after all he will be entrusting it with what exactly, his deepest secrets? _You sound like a tween girl,_ he thinks to himself, and it doesn't really matter and he picks up a plain yellow spiral-bound one and then suddenly it does matter because he's found the right one, and it's black and thin and tall (can a notebook be tall? this one is) and leather and the pages are gridded, and he knows instantly that yes, he can fill this one. The fly is still buzzing and the clerk lets out a bit of a snore and Anderson has just surprised himself by sincerely meaning to do exactly what his therapist asks.

Twelve pounds later he's strolling back to the underground station feeling good about the world and resolving to stop for pizza on the final walk to his flat.

* * *

><p>At home, he discovers that "sincerely meaning to do" and "actually doing" are two different things entirely. He's eaten his pizza and lagged a bit over the washing up and checked his email (nothing new there he's not on the force anymore so nobody regularly stays in contact with him) and delayed all he can so he sits down in front of the window and stares at the terrifying potential of the blank page. It's starting to get a bit dark and so he's turned on a few lights but the glow of the sunset is still coming through his bank of windows and he's not. He's not writing. The page is orange in front of him and he's holding a new pen because isn't that what they did in ancient times, used a new pen every time they wrote YHWH and Anderson knows he thinks of Him as <em>Him<em>, with the capital, so starting with a new pen is appropriate even though it's somewhat messed up and he's still not writing because the page is blank and his mind is stuffed far too full and the transition from thoughts to words is a painful process and he's not scared, he tells himself, but he is.

Time passes and Anderson runs though the memories in his mind and can't bring the new pen to the blank paper. He knows he has to start and Anderson is nothing if not incredibly stubborn and this is something he's chosen to be stubborn about, this writing, and it's agonizing because he's never wanted to do anything quite so much before well probably he has but this, this is consuming his mind at the moment, this is the most important thing in the world, why aren't there riots outside screaming themselves hoarse and demanding he starts the first word and what is the first word and he realizes that the first word has to be him, who he is, his name, and after that, His name, and after that, the fact. So he puts the new pen to the new paper and writes the new sentence:  
><em>I am Gillian Anderson and Sherlock Holmes is dead because of me.<br>_He looks at it and it looks at him, innocent as words can be, and he knows they're guilty but right now they're just shapes on a page, and that's enough for now. He takes a shower because the Hebrew scribes cleaned themselves ritually after writing the name of YHWH but he sure as hell is not getting another new pen and he thumbs his ring finger as he slumps into bed.

* * *

><p>NOTES: Gatiss has said Anderson's first name is Moira, Sylvia, and Gillian. I went with Gillian and let's assume Anderson hatesit.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing he sees the next morning is where damp has started to creep onto his ceiling, because of course this would happen to him, these expensive problems that nobody ever wants to do anything with and he makes a mental note to email his landlord later but he hasn't worked up the motivation to get out of bed yet so he lays there and stares at the slightly greenish tint to the ceiling. It's three weeks ago today that he left Scotland Yard and never went back. It was nice at first, the freedom of not being on call at all hours, but the novelty has worn off and he's starting to get bored, really and truly incredibly bored, and this is why he can't bring himself to nudge the blanket aside and put his feet on the floor, because really there's no reason for him to do so, besides the next book of sudoku puzzles but he's been through three of those already and how many combinations can there be and nobody's life will be saved at the end of it, which was why he got onto the force in the first place and he misses the adrenaline rush that comes with solving a case. _Adrenaline rush? I should just take up skydiving._ And so sarcasm is the crutch he uses to get out of bed and into his clothes, mouth set and twisting as he imagines himself in a series of unlikely scenarios—skydiving, hot air ballooning, scuba diving, bungee jumping, BMX biking, surfing, snowboarding, and he's accidentally made two eggs for his breakfast instead of just one because he had forgotten the absence of the ring on his left hand. He pretends to himself, badly, that he had wanted a scramble all along and combines the eggs with a too-vigorous jab of his spatula and he's burnt his toast but he doesn't mind, not really, and anyway he can blame that on Sylvia because she was the one who bought the toaster and he gets stuck on Sylvia for a while until he realizes that his scramble's about to burn, too, and he shovels the eggs onto the toast.

He had completely forgotten the journal open on the table with the First Sentence glaring up at him. "I am Gillian Anderson—" he shuts it before he can read any farther because he's already thought about Scotland Yard and Sylvia this morning and he'll be damned if he's going to think about Him too because really that would be too much but the conclusion of the sentence echoes hollowly through his head anyway. He refuses to acknowledge it and eats his breakfast in what passes as peace for him lately and what bears almost no relation at all to what other people call peace. There's a sudoku book open and he pulls it over to him along with the no-longer-new pen and manages to spill egg on the page as he fills in the last three or four numbers.

It's a Tuesday, and so he braces himself well in advance for the trek to Sainsbury's to get the shopping because it's Tuesday and that's how life works now. He doesn't miss the days when Sylvia (_there she is again I suppose after being married to someone for ten years it's hard to forget they exist_) would pick the shopping up on the way back from her office but he does all the same because the ritual was in some way soothing to him but now he's created his own and it's Tuesday so he gets the shopping. He doesn't own a car because London's public transport is perfectly fine and it's not as if he can afford to keep one filled with petrol anyway with the state of his finances and he doesn't leave London very often and the train system is pretty good but it does mean he has to walk the twenty minutes of busy roads with armfuls of bread and pasta and the occasional bunch of bananas and this is never his favorite thing, far from it actually, but he does it anyway because it's Tuesday so he gets the shopping.

He has this weekly ritual he does, with the days, Monday for therapist, Tuesday for groceries, Wednesday for library, Thursday and Friday for job-searching because that's a thing he has to do now too even though he doesn't like it and would rather be back at the Yard except he wouldn't really, Saturday for rest, Sunday for church because his dad was an Anglican priest and the whole weekly ritual is really just an expansion of the liturgical rituals on Sundays. He's not even really sure what he believes, he thinks it's likely he doesn't believe anything, but it takes force and effort to break a habit and it is a habit, he's been going to church on Sunday for as long as he can remember and he's not going to stop now, and anyway it's an anchor, even if the rest of his life has no fixed form he's still at church every Sunday morning.

He shifts the rucksack a little on his shoulder to balance the weight more evenly and frowns at two cans of sweet peas trying to make a decision before he comes to himself and remembers that he doesn't even like peas what is he doing really. He shakes himself out of his fugue state of liturgy and thoughts of Sylvia and goes to pay at the register. The walk home is less than pleasant but it always is and that's another thing about Tuesdays, the steady unpleasantness of the walk home, but at least it's not raining even though it is as hot as ever.

The journal watches his evening routine, he could swear it, and he catches himself eyeing it in his peripheral vision more than once as if it could do what, exactly, eat him? _This is ridiculous_, he thinks, and "This is ridiculous," he says, and the sound of his own voice echoing through the empty apartment helps, a bit, but not enough, and he's still watching the journal absently as he opens one of his new cans of soup and heats it over the stove and eats it.

He reads long into the evening but the thought of the journal is still looming over him and he refuses to be beaten by a blank white expanse of paper and a new pen that is no longer quite so new but he doesn't want the first sentence to affect his recollections of the event he's about to recount because he wants to be honest, dammit, about how that day was, uncolored by later events, so he turns the page and slips into his memories and begins to write.

_I should probably start with the first time I saw him. Christ, I should probably start before then, but I'll fill in the relevant details. So. The first time I saw him was at a crime scene, of course. Where else would he be. I had seen Lestrade sneaking off to make a phone call, which was not precisely out of the ordinary. His wife called sometimes at unfortunate hours. I didn't think anything of it at the time. The murder we were investigating was, without giving away too many details (because while John Watson may feel free to give away details about cases on his blog I don't want to do the same), was one of the less clear and more gruesome ones. I like puzzles, to a point, but this one was both too gory and too confusing for my liking. I'm fairly certain I told Lestrade this; I don't remember his reply, but I do remember his expression. He looked faintly guilty, which didn't make much sense at the time. In retrospect, he looked guilty because he had called Sherlock Holmes._

_I still don't know how Lestrade met Holmes and I don't want to, considering how Holmes was then. He was high as a kite on cocaine more often than not in the earliest days. I have never understood why Lestrade kept calling him. It was like playing a no-win game of Russian Roulette. Empty chamber: high Holmes, of no use. Loaded chamber: well. He was almost worse when he was sober. Everyone was an idiot when Holmes was sober, and any personal problems one may have had were dragged into the open without mercy. He was the cruelest person I had ever met._

_But the first time I met him. Right. He must have sounded sober over the phone because Lestrade was fooled, but when he showed up it was obvious he was as high as a kite. It was obvious. I remember spotting him at the other end of the street and tracking him as he made his way closer. His walk was erratic and jittery. Classic signs of being under the influence. I tried to point him out to Lestrade but he just shook me off, waving the man over. "Anderson, this is—_Christ, _Sherlock, you're _high, what the fuck—_" but by then it was too late. Holmes was already under the crime scene tape._

_From here it's all a bit of a blur. I remember Holmes's matted hair and dilated pupils and his twitching dance around the corpse and the way he kept flicking his eyes back at us like we were, I don't know, going to attack him or something. He was talking to himself, yelling and muttering. All hell broke loose. I lost it at Lestrade. "_WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE? HAVE YOU LOST ALL SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY?_" and so on. I still stand by what I said. Lestrade's actions were inexcusable and I should have reported him immediately. Lestrade was bellowing at Holmes while still trying to keep the rest of us from immediately cuffing the man and the other officers was either yelling in surprise and dismay or rooted to the ground in shock. _

_I stopped shouting at Lestrade long enough to catch some of what Holmes was muttering and picked up that he was slotting together the pieces of what had happened to the victim. This intrigued me, I guess, and I stopped being furious to listen. I respect the solving of puzzles and Holmes, even high out of his mind, has always been a genius at it. I was starting to put together the pieces myself from his mumblings when—and this part is fucking unbelievable—he suddenly yelled something about needing to feel the vibrations of the floor. Before anyone could stop him, he sat down—I still can't believe this happened—actually in a puddle of the victim's blood._

_I shouted, Lestrade bellowed, Donovan shrieked, and I think someone may have fainted. Holmes started to calmly take his fucking shoes off. While sitting in a pool of a murder victim's blood._

_Easily the most surreal moment of my life. I couldn't feel anything besides shock and I think I may have forgotten how to move for a moment—I think everyone did, and I swear time slowed down. I could tell I was going to go mental in a minute but I hadn't gotten there yet. Donovan was the first to collect herself (there's a reason I've always admired her) and she pulled Holmes to his feet—one shoe gone by then—and screamed bloody murder at—I'm not sure who, but it was clear she was livid. Lestrade was there cuffing him, then, and then things unbelievably, incredibly, impossibly got worse._

_I saw the—this is unbelievable—the fucking syringe fall out of his coat pocket. A syringe fell out of his coat pocket. I remember it clearly—it was an old-fashioned one, obviously glass, and I saw the next disaster coming from a mile away. Donovan was still yelling at Lestrade and Lestrade wasn't paying enough attention to what Holmes was doing. I shouted a warning but it was too late. Holmes stumbled forwards and stepped, with his unshod, bloodstained foot, right exactly on the syringe. The glass shattered. Lestrade screamed, "JESUS FUCK!" having finally figured out what was going on. Holmes didn't seem to notice the pain but Lestrade jerked the man's foot up and sure enough, the glass had cut right through the soles of his foot and his blood was mingling with the victim's._

_So to recap, Lestrade had called a civilian to look at the crime scene. That civilian had shown up high out of his mind, sat down in a pool of blood, stood up barefoot, dropped a syringe into aforementioned pool of blood, stepped on said syringe, and gotten his own blood all over my bloody crime scene._

_I think I said more expletives that day than I ever had before in my life. Lestrade abandoned the scene amid a storm of curses to take his pet junkie back to the station. Holmes left a trail of bloody footprints the entire way back to the squad car, making my job more difficult—fuck, I hadn't even had a proper look at the body, and already my crime scene was contaminated. Every single officer working the case was jittery and wide-eyed, unable to concentrate, and it was three hours before I felt confident enough to present my findings to Lesrade. I also planned to do a good bit of yelling and a smaller bit of paperwork to report the man. _

_I was fuming when I reached Scotland Yard and I probably broke a few things on my way to Lestrade's office. I demanded that he explain—"Fucking _hell_, Lestrade, I can't believe you, a junkie on a crime scene, fuck"—and he wouldn't. Well, it wasn't so much that he wouldn't exactly. "Anderson, I can't really—if I could I—government clearance—I'm sorry, you'll just have to trust me." He waffled. I couldn't believe it. I still can't. I don't understand why he couldn't explain to me his apparently government-mandated need to call Holmes. It doesn't make any sense at all, and if I had been able to stop him calling Holmes in the first place, none of this mess would have happened. I guess somehow I think that's my fault too? I hadn't realized. This writing gig does help I suppose. _

_Anyway, I was keen to continue arguing the non-necessity of junkies on my crime scenes—"Lestrade, it took me three extra hours to deal with that crime scene with his fucking blood all over the place and—" "Anderson." I remember this firmly: I was in the middle of a rant and he just said my name. "Anderson. Sherlock solved the case. The murderer is on his way to the station as we speak."_

_So, fuck, a 25-year-old high-as-a-kite fucking cocaine junkie was better and faster at my job than I was. I won't pretend that destroyed me a little. I don't remember what I said to Lestrade but I doubt it was pleasant and went home for the rest of the day._

_Final recap: Civilian on crime scene. Civilian high on crime scene. Civilian sits in victim's blood. Civilian takes off shoe. Civilian steps on glass syringe dropped from civilian's coat pocket. Civilian leaves bloody footprints on crime scene. Anderson given three hours extra work. Civilian under "government clearance" apparently. Anderson has some idea of case. Civilian solves murder while high after having looked at crime scene for thirty seconds._

_I remember this day as the worst day of my life. Christ, that sounds overdramatic, like a teenager or something. I don't mean it to be. _

He sighs and puts down the pen and the words stare up again, that pretense of innocence and he thinks this time it is his innocence that's looking at him because obviously this situation wasn't his fault, was it, it was all His fault for showing up with more cocaine than blood, apparently, and Lestrade's for calling Him because no matter how strange it was that his reporting Lestrade seemed to have vanished into the ether of bureaucracy Lestrade had kept up the contact and he doesn't want to go into this right now. Remembering is exhausting and this memory is particularly so because, well, because. Everything changed, after, nothing was ever the same.

He closes the notebook, sliding a finger along its slim pristine spine, and stands, and stretches, and blunders into his bedroom and falls into bed


End file.
